


Rush

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: Prompt Fics [69]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Gen, M/M, Nick is a bit of an idiot, Somewhat whumpy but not really, car race, minor accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: Nick Stokes doesn't back down from a challenge, or from an adrenaline rush.
Relationships: Greg Sanders & Nick Stokes, Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes
Series: Prompt Fics [69]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540795
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Rush

**Author's Note:**

> for an anon who sent the prompts “You’re going to get someone hurt.” and “You’re dumber than I thought if you think I’m letting you do this alone."
> 
> also an attempt to get back into Nick's POV

“You’re going to get someone hurt.”

Nick’s lips tighten to a frown as he can feel the disapproval radiating off of Greg’s body as he stands against the locker, arms folded as he watches Nick dress himself in a thick jumpsuit. 

“Maybe even _yourself,”_ Greg emphasizes, drawing out a loud sigh from Nick.

“It’ll be a controlled environment, G. It’s just a race, not like a fight to the death. I’m not Evel Knievel, nor even pretending to be.”

“Could have fooled me!” Greg snorts. “All you’re missing is the mullet.”

Nick laughs humorlessly, his lips folding up in a snarl. 

“Bet you’d like that, huh? Give you something to tug onto.”

“Now you’re just deflecting,” Greg points out. Nick reaches for the helmet on the bench but Greg snatches it away before he can grab it. 

“Give it up, Greg. You’re not gonna stop me from doing this.”

“What do you have to prove, Nick? Your self worth isn’t defined by what kind of car you drive. A-and wasn’t it even you who said you’d go dutch any time a chick asks what you drive?”

“Where’d you hear that from?” Nick’s frown folds even more.

“Sara.”

“I hate when y’all talk about me…” Nick grumbles. “None of your damn business…”

“Hey, it _is_ my business. _You’re_ my business, Nick. And I don’t want you to sell out just cause some asshole teased you about rolling up to a scene in a car as big as your ego.”

Nick snatches the helmet out of Greg’s hands and storms out of the room, his nostrils flaring, his fingers trembling in anger at the reminder of what set off this 

He knows it’s stupid. Of course he does. _He’s_ not stupid. And in a moment of weakness, sure, he may have let himself fall into a trap of thinking that could be proven by getting off on the adrenaline rush of a drag race between himself and the smarmy asshole who thinks he’s better than Nick. 

But he can’t fall back on those words. He’s trapped on the cushion of his own inflated ego with no way to pop the bubble. He’ll just seem like a coward if he forfeits the race.

After all, he can’t deny he doesn’t get off on the rush. Might as well have some fun.

* * *

It’s an odd sight to see the normally uniformed personnel of the Las Vegas Police Department, Crime Lab, Fire Department and Paramedics Squad all congregated in street clothing and shooting the breeze with beers and junk food as they wait for the main event of the evening. The crowd whoops and hollers as Nick modestly makes his entrance, with a daytime level 2 CSI making the loud, exaggerated announcement that he is heading towards his vehicle, and the race can begin. 

Nick sits himself in the driver’s seat, his gloved fingers flexing as his grip tightens around the wheel. He revs up the engine just as he tries to rev up his own adrenaline, drowning out the surge of anxiety that bubbles in his veins. The commotion outside is muffled in the confines of his car, which suddenly feels smaller and tighter. He feels isolated, and what would he have to prove to anybody if it was just him in the car? He looks through the tinted window at the car next to him, and with the reminder of why he’s doing this in the first place, all doubts drip out of his mind like the motor oil he smells leaking all over the pavement through the cracked window. 

“ARE YOU READY? THREE…” 

The world’s slowest countdown is interrupted by the opening of a car door, the sounds outside increasing temporarily in volume, which throws him off of his previously determined train of thought.

“What are you doing here?” he growls at his sudden passenger, the words fog up the slit of glass with a huff from his suddenly damp face.

“You’re dumber than I thought if you think I’m letting you do this alone,” Greg tells him through his own helmet, speaking an octave higher than normal under the mask. 

“TWO…”

It’s too late to kick Greg out of the car. He’d be accused of stalling the race.

“Just…buckle up then. And hold onto something.” 

Nick’s hand is on the gear shift. Greg puts his hand on top of his.

“ONE! GOOOOOOOOOO!”

Nick shifts into drive, and jams his foot on the accelerating pedal. His heart rate increases along with the dial on the speedometer that pushes sixty, then seventy, then eighty, then ninety–if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think he had just propelled his car into the air, the tires turning so fast that they hardly seem to touch the street. 

In no time at all, he’s pushing one hundred, and he can feel the flesh behind the matted padding lining the helmet twist into a gleeful smile. Despite his qualms, he can even hear Greg laughing behind his helmet. He dares to take his eyes off of the road, first to check to see that– _yes!_ He was in the lead, he was surely going to win this–before snapping his head in the other direction, to look at Greg and share a cheer–

And that was the biggest mistake he could have made.

The car, which had already been unstable in the furious speed, starts to spin out. Nick’s mind shifts into overdrive as he remembers his father’s words instructing him on what to do in such an instance, he steers into the spin–nearly colliding with the opposing car, which has also fallen into a similar state of chaos–and is able to reign in control of the car once more. 

For a brief moment, he thinks that’s it, giggles in relief as he feels his body fall out of its sudden rise. _Man,_ he childishly thinks, thinking back to the similar daredevil antics of his youth, _that was so worth it–_

He doesn’t just pass the finish line, indicated by the waving flags from who he recognizes as Officer Metcalf, he _sur_ passes it, and finds himself colliding face-first with the firetruck that had been placed, as a precaution, at the end of the strip of desert land dedicated for this competition.

The air bags implode, and his head ricochets between the cushion and the back of the seat. His hand fumbles for Greg’s, praying to any entity he could that he hadn’t forgotten to ensure the passenger’s air bag was enabled. The helmet acts as the inside of the bell that he feels his head had just been rung in, his ears pop and he can feel blood pour from their openings. His jaw somehow had also disjointed, even inside the confines of his helmet. He resets it as he unlatches the helmet, expanding the motion blurred slit of his vision into a full panoramic blur of the world. 

“You okay?” he spits out, momentarily worried he just spit out a tooth and not just a wad of saliva.

“Yuh-huh,” Greg wheezes. Nick hears the hiss of his inhaler. He squints his eyes, but Greg’s body waves around like a ghostly image, never solidifying. He groans as he fights to keep his head up, gravity doing its damndest to keep his chin tethered to his chest. His nostrils are filled with a smoky stench, which he can only presume is coming from the billows of clouds surrounding the outside of the front window. A strip of alternating lights dances in the air as he hears the familiar emergency sirens interwoven with echoes of cheers he remembers hearing from his days as a frat boy.

A rush of cooling wind offers him some relief in this hazy hell, and his body is pulled to the side, out of the car and stumbles onto the teetering pavement. He struggles to find balance as his chest, shoulders, and arms are gripped and grabbed and patted in congratulatory motions, though he hopes that at least one of the paramedics are there to indicate any serious harm, more to Greg than himself.

“Yo, Stokes! You did it!” 

“Made a good choice, betting on you!”

“See, knew you had it in you!”

“Well, well, well, who went and damaged my pride and joy?”

The fire chief, he recognizes as his eyes un-cross. His heart turns to stone with dread, feeling as small as the teenager who got grounded by an intimidating judge who caught him hitting mailboxes with a baseball bat.

But instead of a cold hand wringing the collar of the delinquent CSI, or raising in a threat of a slap, he’s instead pat on the back, albeit a little roughly, in jest.

“Looks like you can use your winnings to get yourself a new car there, son.”

“Jim’s sure as hell gonna get a kick outta this one at the poker table,” the chief laughs as he walks away from Nick’s field of vision.

“I didn’t know Brass plays poker,” Nick chuckles, eyes now scanning for Greg, who bumps into him. Nick throws an arm around his shoulder, holding him tight.

“I don’t know what’s funnier, the idea of Brass playing poker or the fact that your dumb ass actually made it out of there in one piece.”

“C’mon, G! Gotta admit…it was a little fun.“

“Alright…maybe a little. But next time we go on a road trip? I’m driving.”

“Speaking of which, we gotta talk to Hodges about what we’re doing for Henry’s birthday next week…I don’t know why, but I got the taste for barbecue.”

“Yeah, probably from the smoke coming from your car getting into that thick head of yours.” 


End file.
